EXHIBITION STATEMENT
The power of one form of art over another fascinates me. Many art forms — visual arts, literary arts, music — carry the influence of those that came before and it’s always exciting for me to discover the little pieces of one artist informing another.
For this exhibition, I invited a few visual artists and poets with whom I have worked in the hopes that their art would inspire one another to create. The artists and poets were given the opportunity to submit existing art and poetry. The art was sent to poets and poetry sent to the artists who were give the opportunity to select poems or pieces of art that spoke to them from the submitted work. Participants were then asked to create a new piece of art—be it a visual art piece or poem—based on the original inspiration. All of the artists and poets that are participating in Art & Words rely heavily on visuals and I knew that pairing their art form with another would be successful. I wasn’t disappointed. Art & Words holds something for everyone in both visual and written forms.
I wish to personally thank the those that came together to make Art & Words one of my favorite exhibitions, and to those artists who brought my own poetry to life and to another level. I have been told by many artists and poets that they were challenged and that the project was a great creative reward. Please view the exhibition and spend some time looking deep into both the poetry and artwork to see the connections made between the artists and poets. Hopefully you too will discover your own connections.
Robert P. Langdon, Curator
April 2019
© Cheryl Lickona “Final Goddess” Digital collage 15.25” x 9.75”
inspired the poem "Final Goddess" by Michelle DeCicco
FINAL GODDESS
Every living organism has a soul, and a purpose in the circle of life.
from the smallest forest, to the deepest jungle she exists, newly created by the ancient ones, she grows from the ferns and earth a final chance for us humans,
to replenish and care
she thrives from hope, for change balance, for giving and receiving from seed to sapling, she, you, and i won’t survive without a greener Earth.
— © Michelle DeCicco
© Cheryl Lickona “Eva's Angel” Digital collage 15.25” x 9.75”
inspired the poem "Eva's Angel" by Michelle DeCicco
EVA'S ANGEL
Shhhhh... night merges with day what is fantasy, might be true his stone to her skin converge with reality Shhhh... lucid dreams revolt reality crumbles as we embrace it precious face notices touch hardens the soul Shhh... confuse the controlling dreamer twisted understandings cherub sight deceives others secrets of the present converge Shh... day breaks the night future to past souls she feels all with vanishing eyes secrets yearning to control secrets aching
— © Michelle DeCicco
© Theresa Landi Daniel “Fruehling (Little Early Thing)” Handmade paper and mixed media 6.5” x 6”
Inspired by the poem "Fruehling" by Theresa Landi Daniel
FRUEHLING (LITTLE EARLY SPRING)
First clue, color cue, watery blue. Greying sky; sprouts shy. Spatter-drops for pale buds Robin hops on soft mud. Worm squirm; worm gone. Showers off and on.
Amber flaking dust, browning, turns to rust that must but just cannot repel the rain. Sun low
Afterglow
Warming dark….
Day breaks. First spark starts slow, sparse and quiet.
Then green bursts to yellow, and violet riot.
— © Theresa Landi Daniel
© Ana C. H. Silva
“Timepiece”
Watercolor, paper, eye accent, ballpoint, pencil on panel
8” x 10”
inspired by the poem "An Antique" by Michelle DeCicco
AN ANTIQUE
my thoughts travel to you even in my dreams black and silver numbered and lettered high and elegant a shell of an antique but complete without a scratch your voice a delightful echo from the past reminds me of the greats that spent hours with you rhythmically touching your parts
— © Michelle DeCicco
© Andrea Geller
“Dent”
Oil on canvas
8” x 8”
inspired by the poem "Dent" by Ana Silva
DENT
The only thing of mine in that house was the dent. I threw a green stone egg at my bedroom wall. The egg made an oval in the sheetrock. I watched shadows dip into its curve at night.
I threw a green stone egg at my bedroom wall. I was allowed to have an egg collection. I watched shadows dip into its curve at night. Wood, agate, onyx, volcanic glass, even a geode.
I was allowed to have an egg collection. The beauty that something inside will someday come out. Wood, agate, onyx, volcanic glass, even a geode. Some nights I put a pillow on the floor and watched the moon.
The beauty that something inside will someday come out. I watched shadows dip into its curve at night. Some nights I put a pillow on the floor and watched the moon. The only thing of mine in that house was the dent.
— © Ana C. H. Silva
© Joanne Pagano Weber
“Cycles of Change”
Acrylic on canvas
16” x 12”
inspired by the poem "Cycles of Change" by Debra Offner-Friedkin
CYCLES OF CHANGE
We rallied round an evening barbecue like a prehistoric tribe partaking of the hunt spoils; post Fourth of July, the dog on his outdoor run barked at errant firecrackers.
We splintered into subgroups aware that relatives cannot be chosen; smoldering coal smoke hastened the darkness so we lifted our voices to push back the night.
Sitting in webbed chairs we lit citronella candles and raised beer bottles to the stars; clouds above our heads danced across the full moon the wind below dispersed our conversations capriciously.
Funny how one has no sensation of the movement of time slipping forward; that moonlit night I saw my generation infiltrating my parents reign, while my children ripened.
— © Debra Friedkin
© jd weiss
“remembering the way home”
Medium format film archival pigment print on panel
18” x 18”
inspired by the poem "Marie" by Robert Langdon
MARIE
I helped someone die today. Held Marie’s tired and bruised hand and talked her through letting go. I was honest — as I know she would want me to be — and relayed the final truth without a coat of sugar.
The truth that this time she wasn’t going to bounce back. That they wanted to cut her open again and clean the guts of this stubborn infection. That the tubes had to come out and she would forever breathe through a hole dug in her throat.
The truth that her cherished independence would be filched and she would be under someone’s care in a home of weakness, popsicle stick crafts and wafts of urine. With tears slipping down my face and falling onto her brittle hand I offered the dignity of choice and asked if this is what she wanted.
She looked at me through her cataract milky eyes. I knew she understood but she couldn’t respond because of the tubes feeding her air like a decorative aquarium chest. But Marie’s treasure was spent.
She moved her head from side to side like a pendulum. “No” she mouthed closing her eyes with final thoughts racing through her healthy mind She didn’t want this new quality of life. She didn’t want this fight.
She looked up at me while they injected morphine into the IV bag. The gaze lifted as her eyes rolled into her head like a junkie. They pulled the breathing tube from her mouth — unrolled like a tape measure — and switched off all of the machines except for one that monitored her beat.
Gurgles rose from her throat sounding like a child pushing air through a straw into a glass of milk. I held her hand tighter as she faded deeper into the task of giving in. “You will always be with me,” I repeated. “Tap me on the shoulder to let me know when you visit.”
She gazed at the ceiling mouthing words that only the dead could hear. She saw them reaching out to her—Ted, Manny, Duckie — and grasped their hands as they escorted her into death. One final blip on the screen and she left without dramatics. She simply closed her eyes and stopped living.
Later that evening the stress of the past month released like a slow leak in a birthday balloon. I sunk into the mattress like it were a cloud and dreamt of a younger Marie. Smiling like how I wanted to remember her. I felt a tap on the shoulder and smiled knowing it was her letting me know she was there. Just as I had asked.
— © Robert P. Langdon
© Diane Christi
“Contemplation”
Pastel
16” x 12”
inspired by the poem "Monday" by Robert Langdon
MONDAY
Welcome the close of day with vodka and bitter tonic. Twist of lime. Leave the corporate world to sunlight rays as grooves of jelly jar pints circle my lips like hula-hoops.
Pool players knee deep in competition capture my attention. Stripes and solids bullet from side to side dueling on velvet green. Their boastful collisions blend with the rhythm trickling from the jukebox.
Stevie Nicks, the white winged dove, sings of addiction. Her liquored breath strips me of my three pieced mask and I ease into repose.
Worries of the day are easily forgotten. Clients snuggle down. Voice mail messages mount resigned to 9 to 5. Forgotten until alarm clock laughs 6 a.m.
Routine wraps me in Tuesday’s skin.
— © Robert P. Langdon
© Leah Brown Klein
“It's Complicated”
Pastel pencil
17” x 21”
inspired the poem "it's complicated" by gwynneth green
it's complicated
is it really so rude
to choose
not to use
chopsticks
a fork
a spoon
work so much better
even fingers
in a pinch
who’s idea
was it to eat with sticks
why spend time
fighting with the food
when satisfying an appetite
is the point of feasting
don’t complicate
the meal
with snow peas slipping through
and rice
that doesn’t adhere to
what would be
a whittled piece of wood
is this a cultural test
for those who didn’t grow up
with wands or rods
consuming food
without a place setting
you know
the ones who say
no elbows on the table
you’re not in a horses’ stable
really
who eats in a stable besides the animals
there should be no shame
in eating your own way
who has the final say
as to etiquette
are you done
spoke your piece
please now
pick up the sticks
let’s eat
— © gwynneth green
© Josh Dorman
“Interior: Hedgehog Manager”
Mixed media collage on panel
30” x 24”
inspired the poem :The Collage Artist" by Robert Langdon
THE COLLAGE ARTIST
I’m pulling it together.
Combining the pieces in an arranged
marriage of mammals and birds.
Acrylic and cut pieces scrapped
from outdated medical texts, stained
auto guides and books of jokes that
stopped being funny.
Scissor snipped and clipped
seals and snails and diving swallows —
lost in a jumble of Indian ink and Library Paste
— arrange themselves into a dance.
My hands are lost in the cut and stroke.
The lines blur as I birth
a new collage.
— © Robert Langdon
© Ellen Martin
“Abandoned #185 (October 19, 2016)”
Ipod Touch digital photograph
20” x 15”
inspired the poem ransacked by gwynneth green
ransacked
rags
all that was left
were rags
vandalized
body parts
spun
twisted
bent and broken
violated
spoiling
a space
disruptive
disturbing
terrorized
shocking
the mind
into a warfare game
who
why
will they return
does one stay
with a gun
ready to shoot off toes
does one
flea
for there’s nothing worth keeping
don’t hesitate
don’t spend endless hour contemplating
file a claim
lock the door
don’t look back
leave
— © gwynneth green
© Kathleen MacKenzie
“Facing the Wind”
Acrylic on panel
12” x 12”
Inspired by the poem I Remember by Kathleen MacKenzie
I REMEMBER
I remember a Sunday
winter in the Bronx
the barren streets
enveloped by a bitter cold sky,
a grey blanket covering
our apartment buildings
I remember the wind
cutting through the alleyways
whipping across the elevated train tracks
lifting falling swirling passing McArdle’s bar
issuing a drunken howl
before turning the corner
The barbershop pole
whirling red white and blue
the sweetshop awning
flapping fiercely
Joe’s shoe repair sign
creaking back and forth
I also remember
on that Sunday afternoon
snapping Liz’s picture
as she stood in closeup
smiling
facing the wind
— © Kathleen MacKenzie
© Kathleen MacKenzie
“Zeus”
Acrylic on panel
12” x 16”
Inspired by the poem Zeus by Kathleen MacKenzie
ZEUS
He wore his
indanthrene tie
knotted at the neck
and strung under
a brilliant
white shirt collar
the longer part thrown
fashionably over
his left shoulder
decorating a
tailored dark grey
suit of silk.
Around his
fingers and thumb
he held a tightly wound
clothe of red.
He strode from the courthouse
quite confident,
the upturned corners
of his mouth
revealing his pleasure
with the verdict.
This god of seduction
a figure of bearing and danger
Zeus rose again.
— © Kathleen MacKenzie
© Debra Friedkin
“The Big Bang”
Mixed media collage
13.75” x 11.75”
inspired the poem "The Big Bang" by Barbara Hall
THE BIG BANG
I see the message of the disaster humanity fears
A nuclear bomb rocketing towards its target on man’s time
Like the Doppler effect, earth anticipates its arrival
her atoms and molecules quiver in portending disintegration
But that is not the only Big Bang
Scientists theorize our origins:
The Birth of the Universe - a Big Explosion…
How can that be? Something from nothing?
Where is the logic? Wnho lit the fuse?
How can matter survive an explosion of nothing?
Fifty years ago, American feet kicked moon dust
Some challenged that it was staged
I’m sure Houston Control did not…
The astronauts wanted to see the dark side of the moon
They reported phantom angels, space ships and orbs
What they really saw, heard and experienced
covered up to keep us safe, the silence of nondisclosure
The wonder and mystery of it all lives on,
Have we been here or there before?
Why so intent to go to the moon? now Mars?
Some say Mars is our home, we are Martians…
Opportunity, MER-B and Spirit MER-A explored Mars,
With the death of MER-B after an unexpected longevity:
“My battery is low and it is getting dark:”
Curiosity takes their place
All report possible evidence of water and nuclear explosions on Mars
Is Earth the planet of the Great Escape?
And Mars the hope of return?
We now have moon dust on our feet
Star bursts, supernovas, do they make the Milky Way?
Human imagination is too confined to comprehend it all
The unanswered question lives: Does history repeat itself?
— © Barbara Hall
© Debra Friedkin
“Tornado”
Mixed media collage
5” x 7”
inspired by the poem "is it too late" by gwynneth green
is it too late
throw me line
i’ve fallen once more
the rabbit hole
it’s deeper than ever
lined with
barbs and thorns
reopening wounds
that had been stitched
but never totally healed
oozing memories
that i thought
had been replaced
is it too late
to avoided
the pain
is it too late
to call for help
is it too late
to mend these scars
is it too late
to be saved
throw me line
— © gwynneth green
© Marjorie Magid
“Dancing In the Green”
Oil on canvas
20” x 30”
inspired the poem "town green" by gwynneth green
town green
as a bird in flight
light on her bared feet
her dance
her expression
no music
the crowd quiets
no sound
leaps
dips
spins
and twirls
mesmerizing
the unexpected spectators
in a trance
unleashing her soul
into a beautiful performance
of unrehearsed steps
captivating the audience
they with bated breaths
fearing
her triple whirl
might end in a fall
the grand finale
a pirouette and bow
leaving all speechless
and in awe
now
continue on
pass the town green
— © gwynneth green
© Ellen Martin
“Abandoned #98 Plywood and Pleats (10-10-2015)”
Ipod Touch digital photograph
28” x 22”
inspired new poems by Barbara Hall and Allen Shadow
ABANDONED #98 — PLYWOOD AND PLEATS
I saw that shanty, too
Abandoned #98
How many more have been abandoned?
Man tired of Mother Nature’s persistent claim for her possessions….
Not one, but two, counting the doors at #98
I saw that shanty driving to Jacksonville
that crumbling shanty caught my eye
I stopped. I snapped a picture. I wondered….
Who once lived there?
Where did they go?
Why did they leave?
Who owns it now?
Why doesn’t someone fix it?
Door #1
why the plywood?
What happened inside?
Door #2
Someone loved it, the evidence remains:
Pleated curtains, sewn and hung,
Ceiling to floor, colors undecipherable,
fabric faded by the sun….
I pictured in my mind…
Two hard working families…
Little Mikey in his baseball cap
Ready to play across the street
hit a home run straight through the window…
Dad with his hammer, blocked the rain….
Mikey’s rear end hurt with pain
Next door, little Sarah, pinafore circles her calico dress,
hanky in her pocket with her nickel for the offering plate
Sarah’s mother stirs Sunday beef stew
Pa, in his best suit, ties his derby shoe laces
But where did they go?
Did Florence move in to reclaim their home?
Money too scarce to mend missing shingles,
molded walls, mud packed floors
Abandoned when the river rose, abandoned hope
Mother Nature struck again, and again and again
Florida’s finger sticking out can host more than one in a year
Florence’s sister Katrina swerved to Louisiana to sing the blues
Brother Harvey chose Houston, worse than Katrina
Sent people packing with displacement and flooding
So where do they go, the displaced and hungry?
How do they survive this story unending
Mother Nature’s eternal determination, rebirths her children
of wind and water, earth and fire,
The constant threat to mankind’s desires….
— © Barbara Hall
Ghost Plaza
Blanked and shadowed
once curtained and live
the cratered parking lot
the power lines to nowhere
the mismatched plywood for eyes
yet can see, smell the luxe drapes
dripping sad theater where once
little ladies with purses sat for hours
beneath bulbous dryers, unaware
of the traffic and teen terrors beyond
Are there still stray coins perhaps
amid the slaughtered floor tiles
ones that might tell tales of transactions
good and bad and heated, when there
was once the throbbing of life?
— © Allen Shadow
Al Desetta
“Loneliness is a Lady”
Oil on canvas
36” x 48”